Windows
It's the windows that make John smile.
They were the first thing he'd noticed just now, when he walked into the room. It's not like you could miss them. They're large, uncurtained, spread across an entire wall and filling the room with light. Not exactly what you expect to find in your new apartment, when you're an ex-agent who's long been more comfortable in the dark.
But they draw him, all the same.
Stepping close to one, he looks out and down, and sees the park—his park—and marvels at Finch's never-failing attention to detail. But then the window itself pulls his gaze back to it.
And it starts to dawn on him that, no, these windows aren't appropriate for the dark and wounded creature he still sometimes feels himself to be . . . but they might be appropriate for someone who's beginning to heal.
And he smiles.